Captive
by WeatherWatch
Summary: She cried at the futility of war.


**Disclaimer: Funnily enough, I don't own Harry Potter or any of the conglomerates related to him. Which is unfortunate really, because then I'd be rich and… Well, anyway, I receive nothing but satisfaction through writing this piece. **

Dark magic seeped from the very stones of the manor house in which the blonde haired witch had awoken weeks previously. She was barely out of school, and her once glorious, golden curls lay limp against the pillows before she climbed from the large, but still unwelcoming bed. Entering the bathroom meant both cleanliness and a reminder of her prison; a refusal of her autonomy.

She took her shower, as usual, and felt the now familiar sensation of Glamours being placed upon her person as she stepped clear of the water jets. The witch could only presume that the room was magically compelled to do as much - particularly when she thought of the perverted alternative.

Glancing into the mirror, she was met with a slightly flushed, pretty depiction of her face, make-up subtly painted across her features to accentuate them. She would have called herself beautiful, had she felt it, but it was not her face, not really. Her pink lips trembled, and she looked away, moving into the expansive wardrobe where her outfit would be hanging.

It was green, with silver brocade that exuded 'old, Slytherin money'. Grimacing, but trying to encourage any sense of gratefulness from her situation – after all, she knew that others were suffering much worse - the curvaceous witch carefully dressed herself before abandoning her 'cell' to take her breakfast with her lord and master.

The ancient home was cold, and her shoes caused an echo to bounce off the walls. There was no point in running - she had learned that during her first day on the premises.

The second thing she had learned was that a demure witch could go a long way in this household.

Reaching the dining room, she composed herself before entering. Three pairs of eyes glanced at her before returning to their meals. Silence, while unnerving, was a good sign.

Breakfast, which consisted of fruits and yoghurt, was uneventful and the blonde hoped to have returned to her room without any further interaction – if it could be called such.

She moved to stand.

"Witchling." Her lord's voice broke the silence, his sleek blonde hair shined against his indecently expensive black robes. "I will require you in my study in ten minutes."

"As you wish." She inclined her head, quietly answering, before taking her leave and meandering slowly towards his private study knowing he would arrive there before her.

Knocking thrice, she waited for the door to open completely and entered, seeing her lord seated in his chair, staring at the flames that licked the opening of the chimney while his fingers caressed his gleaming cane. He motioned for her to sit beside him.

Gracefully, she took her submissive place on the ground beside him, her temple near his knees and her skirt splayed out in a perfect semi-circle, and waited for him to speak.

The minutes ticked slowly by, and she felt herself grow drowsy from the effects of the fire but was brought out of her stupor by Lucius Malfoy's deep voice.

"Witchling, you are unhappy." It was by no means a question, even though it was followed by a lengthy pause.

"As you should be, what with the war ending the way it did." It wasn't meant in a vicious manner, but to give her permission.

She continued staring at the flames, defying her body's desire to cry.

"You have not cried at all, have you?" Lucius deduced. "Not since you arrived here."

"You're a strong child, Witchling." He continued, lightly tapping his fingers against the canes thin length. "But I feel you are lost, and alone, and afraid, and it is wearing you down."

She felt compelled to raise her eyes to his, staring up at his majestic figure.

"I may be your lord, but I am not your keeper. I will not hurt you, Lavender. You should not have been involved in this war."

Lavender's eyes widened in shock, and her withheld tears began to break free, trailing delicate lines down her cheeks. Lucius' hand came to rest against her head, and stroked her hair soothingly, causing her to do something she had never believed possible. She rested her cheek against his leg, and cried.

She cried for what she had lost, and for her friends; for the dead, and for her teachers. She cried because of her memories, the futility of the war, and the fear and loneliness that had been building up inside of her for weeks. And Lucius Malfoy, the Death Eater to whom she had been given as a war prize, let her, running his fingers gently against her hair in a manner so paternal she felt safe.

They remained where they sat for what seemed like hours: Lavender, absorbing comfort from a man she had once despised, and Lucius, consoling a child whose happiness had been destroyed by a war his beliefs had created.

The crackling fire finally began to feel warm against the young witch's skin.

**Well, that's a random piece, I must say! I have no idea where it came from, where it went, but it successfully started pre-exam procrastination, even if my school-conscience won out in the end and forced me back into studying for the last two exams of 'histoire' and 'francais'… Either way, it's finished now, less than 24 hours later =D **

**bises xx**


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